


Something of a Tradition

by wherethefigslie



Category: romantic poets
Genre: M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 04:16:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wherethefigslie/pseuds/wherethefigslie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Byron, Keats, and Shelley gather together to share wine and poetry and Byron's sprawling mansion. Shelley attempts to preserve poor Keats' innocence, while Byron is rather disgustingly himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something of a Tradition

It’s become something of a tradition, with he and Shelley and Byron, to gather together at least once a month to preview their newest work and enjoy each other’s company. More often that not, wine is shared (usually from Byron’s stores), and the three of them fall asleep by the fire, warm and contented.

Byron spoke particularly passionately tonight, and it was drawing nearer to the portion of the evening where they give up on poetry entirely and settle for vaguely philosophical conversation. Still, Byron soldiers on, curled up face to face with Keats on the hearth rug, one long arm wrapped loosely around Keats’ slim waist, his free hand toying with the younger man’s hair.

Shelley has vanished off into the depths of the palace to fetch another bottle of wine, and has likely gotten distracted by the stars, or the turtle, or something similar. Which leaves Keats and Byron quite, quite alone.

Keats is not quite certain how he feels about this. It isn’t that he doesn’t like Byron, gracious no. It’s that despite the halfdozen sonnets he’s written on the subject matter (and promptly deleted), he can’t quite seem to get a handle on how he feels for this mad, often dangerous man. Fanny owns his soul, Shelley his heart, but Byron… Byron is a much more complicated matter.

Still, his words are hypnotizing, his voice low as he shifts closer to nuzzle and whisper against Keats’ ear. It’s intoxicating, the closeness of him and though Keats rests a hand against Byron’s chest to shift him away, he can’t quite manage and instead twists his fingers in the fabric of his shirt.

Byron isn’t reciting anything in particular anymore, simply murmuring words – not of love, but of passion as he drags hot, openmouthed kisses across Keats’ neck. And Keats, god help him, is arching into it, welcoming it eagerly before trying to pull back again.

“George – George stop –“

His friend simply chuckles lowly and brushes their lips together, sliding his hand down to Keats’ thigh and hauling him closer. “You don’t mean that.”

“Ohgod.”

The kiss is searing and Keats is tangling his hands in Byron’s hair, fingers twisting and tugging at the soft curls. It’s messy and perfect, tongues and teeth getting in the way and Keats is whimpering into Byron’s mouth and everything is wonderful.

Byron’s hands wander restlessly, rucking Keats’s shirt up to get at his skin, stroking down over his thighs, combing through his hair. They should stop. They have to stop because this is going too far and Fanny – oh god, Fanny.

He breaks the kiss with a desperate sort of noise, shaking his head to clear it. “I can’t – Fanny –“ he whimpers apologetically, trying to detangle himself from Byron’s long limbs.

“Don’t think about Fanny,” Byron smirks, biting at his throat as he slips a hand between Keats’ thighs.

There’s a breathless laugh and the sound of footsteps, then Shelley’s voice breaking through the fog engulfing Keats’ brain. “I couldn’t remember what we said we wanted, so I got these – “

It’s the bottle shattering as it hits the floor that pulls Keats back to himself, and he scrambles away from Byron, blushing furiously. He mutters a few apologies and hurries out the door to escape back to his own room, away from mad, dangerous Lord Byron.

Byron leans back against the rug with a laugh, looking insufferably smug and pleased with himself. Shelley frowns disapprovingly, setting the other bottle down on the table.

“Sometimes, George, you go too far.”

Byron’s face falls when he realizes that Shelley is actually angry at him, and he leans up on his elbows with a confused frown, “What the hell is the matter with you, then?”

In lieu of an answer, Shelley kicks at the broken class littering the ground. “Clean up the mess you’ve made.” With that, he turns to leave.

“Well where’re you going, then?”

“To do the same.”


End file.
